


Upon A Crooked Wind

by TheIttyBitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Domestic Fluff, Elf Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Recluse Castiel (Supernatural), Slave Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved Castiel (Supernatural), Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, slow healing, talkative castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 23:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18537652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIttyBitty/pseuds/TheIttyBitty
Summary: “Alright then. It’s nice to meet you. I, um, i’m not really sure what i’m supposed to do here, to be perfectly honest with you. I didn’t- I don’t hold with owning… people. I didn’t intend to. But if my brother had bought you-” he falters. “Well, I guess it’s just better that you're here. And i’m not- i don’t own you. You’re a guest here, until I figure out the next step.”---In a snap decision, Castiel purchases an elf to keep him away from his sadistic older brother. But he doesn't believe in owning people, and now he has a whole other person living in his house. A person who doesn't really know how to be free, and has plenty of problems of his own.CURRENTLY ON A SMALL HIATUS BECAUSE I'M WORKING TWO JOBS AND I'M VERY TIRED AND STRESSED ALL THE TIME. I'M THINKING OF QUITTING ONE JOB AS SOON AS IT SEEMS FEASIBLE, AND THEN I'LL START UPDATING THIS STORY AGAIN





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So i'm not really sure how to describe this universe except as sort of a cousin to high fantasy. There are humans, elves, and other fantasy creatures but it's set in modern times and there's no magic. 
> 
> More tags and characters will be added.

Castiel loathes the slave markets. The sickly sweet smell of incense to mask the seer of burning flesh; the barks of merchants, as cavalier as if they were selling produce instead of people. It makes his stomach turn, his hands shake. 

Yet, here he is, cajoled by his eldest brother into accompanying him to the Sereville Slave Market. He’s ready to leave as soon as they set foot on the grounds. Large tents and open booths crowd the field, the smell of too many bodies is thick in the air. 

“I don’t want to be here.” Castiel says. 

He doesn’t see Michael roll his eyes, but he can hear the annoyance in his voice. “I  _ know _ , you want to be home. That’s the only place you ever want to be.”

“I have things to do.” 

“We all have things to do, but you have to leave your house every once in a while or mother starts to worry, and then the rest of us have to intervene.”

The suggestion that Castiel’s self-isolation is a burden makes it impossible for him to keep the scowl off of his face. He didn’t  _ ask  _ to be bothered, he didn’t  _ ask  _ for his family to feel the need to pressure him into social outings. He’s been this way for 27 years, they should be used to it by now. 

“If it’s so much trouble, why did you agree to it?”

Michael sighs, “Mother worries.”

“Yes, you said that already.”

“And it still holds true.”

Castiel presses down the urge to snap at his brother. It won’t get them anywhere. It won’t make this trip any less unbearable. 

“Why are we  _ here _ ?”

Michael is scanning the tents with an uninterested eye, looking over slaves as one might browse for shoes. He picks a tent seemingly at random and strides inside. Castiel hesitates a moment before following, his disdain for the whole affair warring with his fear of being left alone here. The inside is dim, a sweet smell is thick in the air. Slaves stand on pedestals, still as statues. Michael reaches out to touch one’s arm, to turn it this way and that appraisingly. 

“I’m down a few of my staff. It’s time to replenish.”

_ Staff _ , he says. Castiel looks away, resisting the urge to shake his head. Michael calls them  _ staff  _ as though they have a choice in what they do, as if they make a wage.

“What happened to the last ones?”

Michael sighs again. He’s doing that a lot today. Maybe he just does that a lot around his youngest brother. He looks around the interior of the tent and, deciding that there is nothing he wants, steps back out into the sun. 

“Well, you know elves, very breakable.”

There is no way for Castiel to answer without invoking Michael’s ire. He cannot say what he wants to: that Michael’s “preference” for elven slaves is gross fetishization, that the way he treats them is horrid, that owning slaves at all is shameful. Maybe he should say it, he almost has a million times. He’s said it to friends, even to some other siblings, but not to Michael. The cowardice of it eats at him, but he’s never been able to open his mouth and say it. 

Instead, he says nothing. Thankfully, Michael rarely requires an answer, only an audience. He follows his brother for a good ten minutes while Michael mutters about this being a second rate market and gets more and more agitated. 

Happenstance has them near the outskirts of the market, browsing the open air showings, when a shout catches Michael’s attention. A branding pavilion stands nearby, and the source of the sound is quickly evident. A man is bent over a large stone block, bracelets of iron around his wrists and ankles marking him as a slave. He’s restrained by two men now, but it looks as if that were not the case moments ago. A third man stands close by, a red branding iron in one hand, the other hand is clasped to the side of his head. Blood trickles through his fingers, down the side of his face. 

“He  _ bit me _ .” The man snarls. 

“Oh? What do we have here?” The light in Michael’s eyes sends a chill down Castiel’s back. One of the many things he knows, and wishes he didn’t, is that Michael likes “the challenging ones”. He likes to break them. 

A host is quickly blocking their view, hands held up. 

“I’m so sorry, sir. No need to look at that, why don’t we just go this way.” He tries to herd them away but Michael is steadfast. 

“No, no. I’m interested. Spirited, isn’t he? Can I see him?”

The host hesitates, looks back at the block. The slave has stopped struggling now and is breathing heavily, not as though from exertion, but like he’s hyperventilating. His eyes are shut tight. 

“Alright, I suppose. Stand him up.”

The two men holding the slave down move to pull him upright. He has a handsome face, dark blond hair, and long, pointed ears. Castiel feels a shiver of fear before he even hears his brother hum approvingly. 

“Ah, Elvish. Beautiful thing, isn’t he? Does he have a buyer?”

The host purses his lips. He looks to be choosing his words carefully. “Well, no. He’s being moved to one of our permanent facilities.”

“This one? You mean to tell me that he’s just going to be doing manual for the rest of his life? With that body? What’s wrong with him.”

“No one will keep him.” The host explains. “In the beginning it was fighting, running away, talking back. Now…” He looks over his shoulder at where the young man is standing like a statue but for the quickness of his breath, “He won’t speak, he won’t eat. He’s becoming useless.”

Michael puts a thumb to his bottom lip, a smile widens his mouth. “A challenge.”

Castiel knows what Michael is going to say, to do. He knows how this is going to go and he can’t stand it. He can’t let it happen. Afterward, he’ll wonder if he wasn’t possessed for a moment by the spirit of someone braver than himself. 

He takes a step forward before Michael can say anything else. “I want him.” He declares. 

The host and Michael both stare at him. 

“You what?” Says Michael.

“I, uh, I would like to… purchase him.” 

Michael narrows his eyes. He takes a step back and plants his hands on his hips. Then, to Castiel’s surprise, he smiles. “I always knew you’d come around.” He says. “All your  _ holier than thou  _ bullshit, you just hadn’t seen the right one. He’s special, I’ll give you that.”

“I- I still don’t agree with-”

“Yeah, save it. I know how you really feel, now. You really want this one, then?” Michael shakes his head. “Damn. Well, that’s a loss for me, but at least you’re down off your high horse.” He claps Castiel on the back so hard that he stumbles forward a step. 

“Uh,”

“Alright, let's get this sorted out before you change your mind.”

 

Castiel does not ride home with Michael, he’s not sure he can stand another moment with his brother if he’s being totally honest. If he spends anymore time with him he’s likely to say something that’ll get him into trouble. Or, he would at least think it until he gave himself and aneurysm. Instead he calls a cab, and rides home in silence while the driver talks on the phone. When he looks down at his hands he finds them shaking, and he’s afraid he might vomit onto this poor cab driver’s floor. What has he gotten himself into? 

Two to three hours, that’s how long he has before the man he bought is delivered to his door. And then what? What’s he supposed to do? He can’t own a person, it’s not right. He hasn’t thought this through. He’d acted on instinct, desperate to keep that poor man away from his brother, and now he has no plan at all.

He’s not panicking. Everything is fine. 

The drive is long enough that by the time they reach his home Castiel has thought of every possible thing that could go wrong and several completely implausible things that could go wrong. He manages to keep a straight face until the cab driver is out of sight, and then he sits down in the middle of his yard. 

“What did I do?” He says. 

There is no one around to hear him but the trees and the birds and the small animals that rustle in the forest surrounding his house. The driveway to the main road is too long for anyone to see him lay down on his back and put his hands on his face. 

“God, what did I do. Why am I so stupid?” No answer comes, however. 

He does get up eventually, and slumps toward the house with the air of someone on their way to their own public execution, or perhaps a family thanksgiving. He stands in the entryway for a long time, looking one way and then the other. He needs to clean. This place isn’t fit for company, and soon enough there’ll be someone else  _ staying  _ here. 

“Christ.” He says aloud. He allows himself one more moment of panic. Then, he gets to work. 

Two and a half hours later comes the knock on the door. Castiel freezes, elbow deep in sudsy dish water. He wipes his hands quickly on his pants and makes it to the door in time to greet two stone-faced delivery men with the elf standing in between them. 

“Ah, hello! I was just cleaning up, would like to, uh, come in?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Says the delivery man on the left. He pulls a clipboard from  _ god knows where  _ and pushes it toward Castiel. “Sign these, please.”

Castiel takes them warily. “Do I need to read these through?”

“It’s just transfer of ownership. And this one- ” the man reaches out to flip to the second page, “is to confirm that we delivered the package.”

“The package?” Castiel almost chuckles, thinking the man is joking, but when he looks up he finds the same grim visage as before. He signs quickly. He gets a copy of both documents and then, as quickly as they came, the two delivery men are gone. It’s only Castiel and a miserable looking elf standing in his hall. 

“Ah, well,” Castiel wipes his hands on the hem of his shirt again. He holds one out. “I’m Castiel.”

The elf does not respond. He seems to have picked a spot on the wall and is looking at nothing else. Nothing shows on his face. 

“Alright then. It’s nice to meet you. I, um, i’m not really sure what i’m supposed to do here, to be perfectly honest with you. I didn’t- I don’t hold with owning… people. I didn’t intend to. But if my brother had bought you-” he falters. “Well, I guess it’s just better that you're here. And i’m not- i don’t own you. You’re a guest here, until I figure out the next step.” He’s rambling, but this finally causes the elf’s expression to break. 

His eyes flicker to Castiel’s face for a half a moment, a flash of green, then he’s back to staring at the wall. His posture is slightly different than before, though. He isn’t moving, but he seems on the edge of movement now. 

“Anyway I've just been cleaning, did I say that already? I know it’s not, like,  _ nice _ . I haven't had company in, well… have I ever had company? Hmm. It’s alright though. Or it will be, once I finish cleaning. I’ll put new sheets on the bed in the guest room. Um. I’m thinking about making meatloaf for supper, unless you have any objections. I know they said you weren’t eating, but I thought you might. You don’t have to, if you’re trying to starve yourself or… whatever. I don’t really know what you’re going for there.”

There is a definite crease between the elf’s eyebrows now. He’s frowning. He looks at Castiel again, and this time he holds his gaze for several seconds before dropping it to the floor. His lips part, and Castiel leans forward to hear him. 

“I…” the elf has to clear his throat, and still is voice is faint enough that Castiel has to strain to hear it. “I’ll eat.”

“Oh! Good. Good. I’m glad. Ah. Do you want to change? I have some things that might fit you, if you want. That doesn’t look very comfortable.”

The elf is wearing what amounts to a thin paper shift. It crunches when he moves and barely comes to his mid-thigh. He looks down at himself, back up at Castiel. His mouth is set in a thin frown, eyebrows bunched. His fingers are half-curled by his sides, as if itching for something to grab hold of. He gives one very slow, very slight nod. 

“Alright, come on then.” Castiel starts down the hallway, happy to have some direction. They pass the kitchen on the right, the living room on the left. Further on to the right is the door to Castiel’s room, and then another, the guest room. 

“That’s where you can sleep, if you like. And there’s the bathroom.” Across the hall. “I’ll give you a real tour later on, if you want. Not much to see though, really. Oh, I can show you the garden! Do you like to garden?”

They’re crossing over the threshold into Castiel’s bedroom now, and with the light switched on it looks pitifully mess. 

“Ah, just- you can close your eyes if you want. It’s a mess, I didn’t think to clean in here. God.” He sighs, hands on his hips. “I’m so unprepared, i’m sorry.”

The elf says nothing. He’s frowning at the floor. By his sides, his fingers still curl inward. 

“Uh,” Castiel goes to his dresser to rummage quickly through the drawers. “I think these pants will fit you. How about this shirt? It’s a little older, but it’s soft.”

The elf does take them, but doesn’t seem to know what to do after that.

“You can change in the bathroom.” Castiel tells him. “Just throw the shift in the trash, unless you want to keep it.”

He gets another look, longer this time. Yet another frown, but not angry. More confused, maybe thoughtful. It seems the elf only has two expressions. Castiel shepherds him into the bathroom and then goes to get the meatloaf started. He’s five minutes in when he hears the creak of the hall floorboards. 

When he looks over his shoulder, the elf is in the doorway. He’s a strange sight, looking positively normal in wash-worn jeans and an old patterned t-shirt. His feet are bare, and he shifts from one foot to the other. The iron cuffs on his wrists and ankles look out of place. 

“Oh, don’t you look nice.” Castiel declares, “I wonder if those cuffs come off, i’ll look into that. How do the jeans feel, do they fit alright?”

The elf blinks. He looks down, shifts heavily from one side to the other, and nods. 

“You can sit down, if you like.” Castiel looks away, but continues to watch the elf's reflection in the window over the sink. The elf takes a deep breath. He moves slowly into the kitchen. He considers the table as though it might bite him. 

“I understand if you don’t want to tell me,” Castiel says, wincing internally when the elf jumps a little at the sound. “But I thought I might as well ask. What’s your name?”

There is no sound for a very long time. When Castiel finally looks back over his shoulder, he finds the elf looking at him. He’s frowning, if possible, even more furiously than he has been. Castiel is beginning to worry that he’s going to bust a vein in his forehead. 

“You don’t have to tell me.” Says Castiel. “But I don’t know what to call you.”

The elf draws in a breath. He clears his throat. He says, “Dean.”

“Dean? That’s your name?”

Dean looks away. He nods.

“That’s a nice name.”

Dean says nothing, and Castiel falls into silence himself, content with the formation of his meatloaf. Once it goes into the oven he takes a moment to compose himself. To wash his hands and think about what he’s going to do next. Unsurprisingly, he draws a blank. When he sits down at the table, Dean’s eyes flicker up to him, then away. 

“I don’t really know what i’m doing.” Castiel admits. “I don’t know if I already said that. I might have. Um. What do you… want to do?”

Dean’s hands clench on the edge of the table. When he speaks, it’s barely more than a whisper. “Is this is trick?”

“No.” Says Castiel.

Dean closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.” Says Castiel. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

Dean is sitting on one end of the couch. Castiel is on the other. 

“So,” Says Castiel, then thinks better of it. What could he possibly say?  _ So, how’s life? So, have any hobbies? _ What kind of inane nonsense is that? But now Dean is looking at him, expecting him to say something. 

“Uh. Do you… like cooking shows?” Something simple is on the TV, a sweet voiced young woman showing them how to make something that Castiel has not been paying attention to. It’s background noise, until it’s not. 

Dean looks at the screen. He frowns at it for a good long while before turning back to Castiel and giving one slow nod. 

“Ah,” A rush of relief leaves Castiel’s head spinning. “I’ll turn it up then. Do you, uh, like to cook?”

Dean takes a long, slow breath in. “Don’t know.” 

“We could try it sometime? If you want. It’s okay if you don’t. But, uh, you know. We could.”

A new expression has dawned on Dean’s face. A raised eyebrow, a slight parting of the lips. He looks almost amused. Almost. 

“Okay.” He says. 

 

Castiel cannot sleep. He can only lay on his back and stare at the ceiling, wondering how Dean is fairing. Is he sleeping well? Castiel thinks it’s not likely. He’d left the elf in the guest room an hour and a half ago, looking confused and holding a pair of Castiel’s own pajamas. And if Castiel is feeling so conflicted, so confused, so worried, how must Dean be feeling? 

Castiel takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Calm, calm. He thinks of trees, of quiet streams. He wills his mind to empty. It does not work. 

“Damn it all.” He says. 

In the kitchen, he tears apart the cabinets. It’s a pie kind of night and he feels a sharp sense of relief when he finds everything he needs. Fresh fruit would be best, but it’s not what he has at hand. With flour on his hands, his mind finally calms. With every knead of the dough he can feel the stress seeping out of him. He’s so wrapped up in it that he doesn’t hear soft footsteps in the hall, the creak of the old floorboard just inside the kitchen door. 

He feels, suddenly, a presence. When he turns, he finds Dean in the doorway. His eyelids are drooping, he rubs sleepily at the back of his neck.

“Did I wake you?” Castiel wonders. 

A slow head shake. 

“Couldn’t sleep? Me neither. It’s- big changes, you know? Well, of course you do. I, um, I like to bake sometimes. Calms me down.”

Dean tilts his head up, just a little. He’s leaning just a bit forward. Interest. 

“Do you want to try?”

Dean hesitates. He chews on his bottom lip. He says, “What are you making?”

It is, possibly, the most that has come out of Dean's mouth. “Cherry pie.”

And that, it seems, is all he has to say. Dean comes closer then, all the way into the kitchen and over to the counter. He leaves a good foot in between himself and Castiel, but he leans on the counter to get a better look at the dough. 

“Do you want to knead some? It’s not hard. You just take the dough like this, see? It’s… cathartic.”

He takes a few steps backward along the counter, enough that Dean has room enough to step forward and take his place. His hands hesitate over the dough. His eyes flicker to Castiel. He takes it in hand. 

“You’re a natural.” 

This does not get a smile, but the hint of one lingers at the corner of Dean’s mouth. He is, in fact, a natural. He’s methodical, and he’s thoughtful as he works. Castiel guides him through the rest of the process, but he doesn’t need much help. It goes into the oven looking nice enough that Castiel might buy it at a shop. He grins at Dean over the oven and, although he doesn’t quite get a smile, he gets a softer look. It’s not a frown. It is, almost, relaxed. 

“Now we wait.” Says Castiel.

Dean sighs. He leans one hand against the counter. “Now we wait.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long. I wrote a whole chapter and then realized it didn't work as the second chapter SO you get this one instead, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> WARNINGS FOR  
> \- descriptions of scars (not too detailed), including some self harm scars (not detailed at all)

The house is quiet. Castiel can hear the chirping of the birds outside his bedroom window, the wind moaning through the trees. The creak of the house settling is just inside his range of hearing, a whisper. The air is cold, and a hard knot of anxiety has lodged itself in the middle of his chest.

He has gone of course, off plan, off the trail. Whatever metaphor, he has done it. All his carefully made plans scattered to the wind. He stares at the ceiling and counts backward from 100, 99, 98, 97. The decision is made, it is done, nothing that can be taken back now. And would he, really? Would he go back to that place and say,  _ I made a mistake, can I have a refund? _ Of course not. 

His mind strays to the room next door. A guest room for someone who never has any guests. Someone is in that room now, finally, sleeping in an old pair of Castiel’s own pajama pants and an old t-shirt. He thinks of Dean’s quietness, of his downcast eyes. He thinks of the scars on his arms, some thin and some thick and ropey. How must the rest of him be? Is he scarred beyond repair?

Castiel resists the urge to look down at his own scars. He wears long sleeves for a reason, but in the summer it becomes more difficult. They’re old, and not as hard to look at as they used to be. The pain of them has faded to only a slight bitterness. They are not who he is, not anymore. 

Castiel takes a deep breath, pulling the morning chill deep into his lungs. He is awake. 

“Alright.” He says to the empty room. “Up, up. Time to start the day.”

Predictably, no one answers. He does hear a creak from next door, however, the soft sound of bed-springs moving. 

He hasn’t had to dress with much care in a very long time. Some days, he’ll admit, he stays in his pajamas all day. There is no one around, and he rarely has to leave the house. Today, he dresses. Today, he chooses. It’s nothing special, but he picks long sleeves. The thought of someone new seeing the scars on his arms makes his stomach churn. 

When he steps out into the hall, the house is still quiet. Within a few moments, though, the other door opens. Dean peers out into the hall with wary eyes. 

“Good morning.” Says Castiel. 

Dean nods. “Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Another nod. 

“I tossed and turned.” Castiel admits, “Can’t shut the brain off. I’m going to put on some coffee if you want some. And you don’t have to get up just because i’m up, you know. If you need more sleep, feel free.”

Dean stares at him for a long moment. He shakes his head. “I’m up.” He says. 

“Alright. Ah, breakfast?” Castiel starts off down the hall. Dean’s footsteps behind him send an unexpected thrill through his chest. Is he happy to have someone else here? A small, traitorous part of him says  _ yes _ . Maybe he has been alone here too long. 

“I can make eggs.” Castiel announces as they come into the kitchen. “Or pancakes, maybe? There’s oatmeal, but it might be a little old.” 

When he turns back, Dean is frowning. “I can cook.” He says. 

“I’m sure you can. But you’re a guest. So what’ll it be, eggs, pancakes, or something else?”  
  
“Whatever is easy.” Dean says finally. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“I think i’ll make pancakes. Do you need to take a shower or anything? I guess I forgot to ask.”

He notices Dean’s eyes flickering towards the bathroom. The slight turn of his body. Dean says nothing. 

“Would you like to take a shower?” Castiel guesses, “Oh, or a bath?”

Dean tenses. He doesn’t look afraid, but an anxious look comes to park on his face. “I…” He stops. Swallows. He won’t meet Castiel’s eye. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

“Oh, no no. You’re not. You can wash while I make breakfast, yeah? How’s that sound?”

“Okay.”

The bathroom isn’t what Castiel would call grand, but it’s the largest out of all the places he’s lived. The bath is big enough for a grown man, and that was one of the biggest draws of this house if Castiel is being completely honest. He enjoys baths, they’re peaceful. There is a curtain that draws closed around the tub if you want to take a shower, painted with big yellow sunflowers. 

“Bath or shower?”

Dean draws in a deep breath. When he looks at Castiel, his eyes are surprisingly open. “Can I have a bath?” He says. His voice is hopeful.

“Of course. I’ll get you a change of clothes.” Castiel says, “If you want to go ahead and start the water.”

He can hear the squeak of the faucet as he crosses the hall to his room, the gush of water into the porcelain tub as he rifles through his drawers in search of something soft. Dean deserves something soft, he thinks. Something gentle. 

The door to the bathroom is still open when he gets back, and Castiel doesn’t think twice about walking in. 

“I got you- oh! Goodness. I’m sorry, I didn’t-” He looks at the painting on the wall above the toilet. A meadow scene, done by his sister. He does not look at Dean, who has stripped down in his absence and seems unperturbed by his reappearance. “I didn’t knock, i’m sorry.”

“I-” Dean looks at the painting as well, then at Castiel. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are  _ you  _ sorry?”

There is a long silence. “I don’t know.” Says Dean. 

This, at last, breaks some of the tension that Castiel feels. He looks at Dean, and finds a blush that mirrors his own. “Here are clean clothes.” He says, to say something. “Ah, there’s body wash, you can use whatever you like. Same with the shampoo. Did I give you a toothbrush last night? I don’t think I did. I have a new pack somewhere, i’ll find it. Um. Do you like bath bombs?”

Dean frowns, unsure. Castiel sets the clean clothes on the sink counter in favor of kneeling to look in the cabinet below. It brings him to a somewhat uncomfortable eye level and he can feel his face burning hotter even as he looks resolutely away. 

Finally, he finds the tote bag. The things inside clack gently as he pulls it out onto the floor. 

“You can use one of these, if you like. They just go into the water, kind of fizz around. They smell nice and they’re pretty.” He shrugs. “If you want to use one.”

Finally, he rises. He clears his throat and looks at Dean, who is looking down into the bag. 

“It's alright if I use one?” Says Dean.

“Any you like.” Castiel confirms. “I’ll, uh, i’ll leave you to it, then. Yell if you need anything.” 

And with that, he exits. This time he shuts the door firmly behind him. 

 

Twenty minutes later there are pancakes, eggs, and bacon, but no Dean. Castiel is in no hurry, but when twenty minutes turns into thirty, thirty into forty, he starts to worry. He hesitates at the bathroom door, hand poised to knock. He doesn’t want to intrude. But… but what if something has happened?

He knocks. No answer comes. 

He knocks again. “Dean?” 

Silence.

“Dean? It’s Castiel. Just checking to see if you’re okay.” 

Still, no answer. Castiel’s heart has begun to pound. What could have happened? Why isn’t Dean answering?

“Dean, i’m going to open the door.” 

He hesitates again, but then swiftly opens the door. His eyes go immediately to the bath, where Dean’s head is leaned back against the wall. He jerks awake at the sound of the door. There is a moment of panic, his eyes go wide, and then they calm again. Castiel is astonished to see Dean lean his head back against the wall. 

“Oh,” Says Castiel. “I’m sorry. I got worried. I shouldn’t have just opened the door.”

“That’s okay.” Says Dean. He is still strangely relaxed. He trails his hand through the water. “Guess I fell asleep. I used one of your bath bombs. It got all swirly.”

Relief rushes through Castiel. Everything is fine, and Dean is more calm than Castiel has seen him. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. You can stay in here for as long as you want, but there’s breakfast if you’re hungry.”

Dean perks up. He sits up slowly and then stands with no regard for modesty or the fact that Castiel is still in the room. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, again. He turns quickly to leave, shaking his head in an attempt to dislodge the blush that has found its way to his cheeks yet again. He shuts the door behind him with a decisive click. He’s been alone too long, he thinks for a second time. 

He stands at the kitchen sink and runs cold water over his hands until Dean meanders in, looking sleepy and clean. 

“You like coffee?” He asks. 

Dean shrugs one shoulder.

“Well, I made some. It’s not plain it’s, um,” He checks the package, “Maple Bacon. It’s pretty good. Tell you what: i’ll pour you a mug and if you don’t like it you don’t have to drink it.”

He sets the coffee mug down next to Dean’s plate, across the table from his own. He watches as Dean inspects the mug and, carefully, takes a sip. He grimaces. 

“You can add sugar if you want. Or milk. I don’t have creamer. But, yeah, sugar is over by the coffee pot if you need it.”

Dean looks at him. He nods. He stares down at his coffee. He looks toward the sugar container on the kitchen counter. Back down at his coffee. He seems to be considering it. Or… working himself up to it. He’s certainly frowning quite a bit. Castiel starts eating his own food, in the hopes that it will lull Dean into a sense of security. It takes about a minutes, but finally it works. Dean gets up, terribly slowly, and goes to the counter with the air of someone who expects to be yelled at at any moment. When he gets back, he looks at Castiel. 

Castiel smiles at him. “Any better?”

A nod. “Not as bitter.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have juice or something. I’ll have to go to the store. I didn’t think i’d be having company. Maybe tea? I could make some tea.”

“This is fine.” Says Dean. “It’s good.” He does drink all his coffee, and cleans his plate, and when Castiel brings him more bacon he eats that as well. 

“Do you need more?” Castiel frets. “I can make more if you’re still hungry.”

“I’m not. Thank you. I'll do the dishes.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

But Dean is standing already, gathering the dishes and taking them to the sink. 

“I can do them.” Says Castiel, rising to follow him. 

Dean turns his head to look at Castiel out of the corner of his eye, then turns back to the sink and starts doing the dishes. Castiel steps up beside him and, taking a towel from the nearby drawer, begins to dry.  

 

It’s strange, having another person in the house. Dean is quiet to the extreme, but his eyes are sharp and Castiel gets the distinct feeling that he gets bored easily. For this reason, he shows Dean the bookshelf. 

Tucked into a corner of the living room, next to Castiel’s writing desk, is a large old bookshelf. Its shelves bow under the weight of the books Castiel has collected over the years, and he has begun to make stacks of books on the floor nearby as well, and on his desk, and on the chairs, and on the coffee table, and even on the couch. He has been meaning to get a second shelf, he really has, but the time has eluded him. 

“Do you like to read?” He asks.

Dean doesn’t answer immediately, but Castiel is watching him carefully and sees the way his eyes light up. 

“I haven't…” Dean says, quietly. “In a long time.” He reaches out towards the books, but draws his hand back at the last moment. 

“You can. Read whatever you like. I’m going to write for a while, you can read if you want or you can do something else. Is that alright?”

Dean blinks. He cocks one eyebrow. “Yes?” 

“Good. If you need anything, just ask.”

Dean stares at him for awhile before, finally, turning back to the bookshelf. Castiel goes to his desk to start on his work, but he hears Dean thumbing through books, sitting down on the couch, the decisive flip of the first page of a chosen book. 

Castiel relaxes. His fingers, poised above the keys of his laptop, lower to rest gently on the cool plastic for a moment. The flip of a second page. Castiel wonders what Dean chose. What did he decide was good enough to read after all this time? Castiel should write. He has a deadline. He needs to focus, to get some things done. His fingers don’t move. He is overcome by curiosity, pulled almost bodily toward the man on the couch by some invisible string. He wants to know. He  _ needs  _ to know. 

“What are you reading?” He says, casually. 

Quiet. A long pause. “The Hobbit.” Says Dean. His voice is soft, thoughtfully. “I read it when I was a kid, don’t remember much of it.”

Castiel turns toward Dean. He has questions, so many questions.  _ How did you end up here? How long were you free? Do you have a family out there somewhere? What circumstances brought you to slavery?  _

He watches as one of Dean’s long ears twitch. Dean presses his thumb to the center of his cheek, frowning down at the pages of Castiel’s much-read copy of The Hobbit. 

Castiel presses his lips tightly together. These are questions he cannot ask. Not now, at least. It’s not his place, it’s none of his business. But he watches. This is the first time he has allowed himself to look at Dean for a long while. The man is absorbed in his book, and Castiel takes a moment to examine him. 

Only one scar mars his face, a thin white line running from his temple to his chin, slicing through freckles on the way. He has scars all over his body though, Castiel caught a glimpse of those earlier along with what may have been some tattoos. His ears are notched up and down their lengths, having been pierced and cut and mauled what looks like dozens of times. Elves’ ears are dangerous, Castiel has noticed, as they seem to make humans angry and libidious at turns. They’re only ears, but they mark Dean as  _ different _ . 

Sensing eyes on him, Dean looks up. Castiel schools his face quickly into something he hopes resembles indifference. 

“What do you think?”

“It’s still good.” Says Dean. 

Castiel nods, turns back to his computer. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He is still not sure what he’s going to do here, but he is beginning to have an idea. A few clicks and he’s in his email. His fingers clack over the keyboard. At the end of a long note he types  _ please advise _ . He hesitates over the  _ send  _ button. He’s not sure if this could get him or the recipient of the email in trouble. He doesn’t think so, but it takes him a moment to push the button. When he does, all the tension drains from his body. He is doing something. He is doing something  _ good.  _ It has been a long time since he has felt his blood sing in his veins this way. 

He turns again to look at Dean for just a moment. The cuffs on his wrists catch the light. He looks almost normal in jeans and a t-shirt, but Castiel knows the cruelties that live on Dean’s skin. 

This is right, Castiel thinks, Dean deserves his freedom. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter! I should have more time to write from now on, but we'll see!

“It’s fine.” Says Dean. The fingers of his left hand twitch involuntarily. Castiel, head bent over the hand, doubts this. 

The cuffs present a problem. A physical problem and a mental one as well. The thick metal bands pain Dean, that much is clear. He may have tuned out most of the pain by now, so used to it that it’s little more than discomfort, but Castiel sees the way he fusses absentmindedly. The way he rubs at his wrists without thinking. 

He wasn't entirely sure that Dean would let him examine the cuffs, but it had taken a surprisingly small amount of cajoling to get his guest to lay his arm out on the table for him to look at. 

“I’m sure they come off.” Castiel muses. “They must.” 

He reaches out to press his fingers to the metal, a chill immediately seeps into his fingertips. Dean’s are a little worn, but not overly so. He would guess they’re only a year or two old, and Dean was certainly in service for more time than that. And so, Castiel decides, they must have been changed. 

Dean watches him for a while, mouth down-turned. Finally, he turns his wrist. On the inside, near the tenderest part of his arm, there are two small bumps on the edge of the cuff. 

“What is that?” Castiel asks.

“That’s how they come off.”

Castiel touches the bumps, fingers so close to Dean’s skin that he can feel the warmth coming off of him. They do nothing. 

“I don’t understand.”

Dean gives one slow shrug. He shakes his head. “That’s how they come off.” He says again, unhelpfully. “Sometimes new owners want new cuffs. I don’t know- I don’t know how it works. They take me to a center. There is a device. It’s pressed to those. The cuffs come off.”

Castiel presses two fingers to his own lips. Pointer and middle. A device?

“Surely it can’t be that difficult.” He says, even as he knows it’s going to be. Of course the manufacturers of these cuffs would take into account all the slaves that would try to remove them. Of course they’re unremovable. 

Dean does not answer. He’s staring down at his arm. 

Castiel has not missed Dean’s scars, only he has tried not to look at them too much. They’re not his business. But the long, thick scar running from Dean’s wrist up for about four or five inches keeps drawing his eye. He has one that’s almost identical. He thinks about pulling up his sleeve and showing Dean, but the idea of it makes his hands begin to shake. 

Castiel withdraws his hand. The sensation of having someone so close to him, physically, is strange. He hasn’t been physically close to another person in a long time. Sitting so close to Dean at the table, so close that he might reach out and touch his arm, his face, is striking. He cannot remember the last time he touched another person. 

“Well,” He says, standing as quickly as he can manage, “this won’t work. The cuffs have to go.”

Dean’s expression remains mostly impassive but, as Castiel watches, one eyebrow quirks upward. “What are you going to do?” He asks. 

 

“Listen,” Castiel says to the girl on the other end of the phone, “I don’t care what the policy is. A purchase was made, the cuffs are basically my property which means I should be able to remove them. How do I do that?”

“Sir, we don’t recommend-”

“And why do I care what you don’t recommend?”

“Sir, it’s policy to take your slave to a Service Center if you want the cuffs removed. I’m not authorized to give you any more information.”

“Well I would just like you to know that you’ve been no help at all today.”

“Noted, sir.”

Castiel ends the call, wishing not for the first time that there were a receiver to slam into down onto. There is a wild moment when he almost throws it, but then thinks better of it. 

“God dammit.” 

Dean is silent. He’s looking down at the table. His posture is tight. 

Castiel takes a breath, he wills himself to calm down. He knows that he’s making Dean uncomfortable, possibly afraid. He understands, of course he does. Other people’s anger is especially frightening when you’re used to being hurt by it. 

“That’s okay.” Says Castiel, lightness forced into his voice. “We’ll just go to a service center, then. We’ll get them to remove the cuffs there.”

Finally, Dean looks up. His lips are in a tight line. 

“Yes?” Says Castiel.

“Do you really think it’s going to be that easy?”

Castiel does not slump. But he lowers himself back into his chair heavily. “If it’s worth anything in life,” Castiel declares, “It will not be easy.”

Dean presses his thumb to the metal of a cuff. He lets out a long, slow breath. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” Castiel presses. “They’re a symbol of something that doesn’t represent you anymore.”

Dean closes his eyes tight and Castiel watches his throat move as he swallows. He clasps his hands together on the table, so tightly that Castiel can see white where his fingers press into his skin. He says nothing for a long time. Then, a nod. “Okay.”

 

Dean sits in the passenger seat with his head pressed against the window. His eyes follow the trees as they slide by. Castiel longs to fill the silence of the car, but words have deserted him. There’s only space between them, and the overpowering anxiety radiating from Dean’s side of the car. The drive into town is longer than Castiel would like, and by the time they get there he feels like he might choke. Dean’s anxiety is getting to him, and they’re both a little shaky getting out of the car. 

Dean looks up at the building, white and squat. There is no color, there are no windows. The ominous air is overpowering. Dean shakes his head.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

Castiel hesitates. He reaches out to touch Dean’s elbow, startling a look out of him that’s both alarmed and confused. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” He says. “I swear.”

Dean blinks. Slowly, the look on his face changes. His eyes are calmer, his mouth set in a thin line. He takes a step forward. 

The inside of the building is cold, Castiel has a vision of walking into a snowbank. Everything is white: the walls, chairs, carpet, counters. The cooly-smiling staff is wearing all white. A white-clad woman detaches herself from the off-white walls. 

Castiel fights the urge to back away as she approaches, her unmoving smile feels more threatening than helpful. Beside him, Dean stands still as a stone. 

“Good afternoon.” Says the woman. Her smile barely moves. “How can I help you today?”

“I’m here to have his cuffs removed.” Castiel nods to Dean. 

The woman blinks. “We don’t recommend removing the cuffs, sir.”

“Yes, yes, i’m aware.” Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I have, uh, another set. I’d like to swap them out.”

The woman’s eyes clear. Her smile becomes slightly less forced. “Of course. We must keep up with current fashion. If you’ll just have him follow me.”

“Sorry, where are you going?”

“Just around the corner, sir.”

“I’ll come too.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Oh, it’s no bother.” Castiel smiles, letting the chill in his bones seep into it. 

The woman stares at him. He smiles back. 

“Alright,” She relents, “it’ll be cramped, but if you insist-”

“I do.”

 

The alcove in which Castiel finds himself is, in fact, very small. He does not regret his decision to come, however. Dean’s eyes have gone alarmingly empty. He is staring at a spot on the wall with the impassiveness of a robot. Castiel wishes he could say something. He wishes he could comfort Dean, but with eyes everywhere it’s too risky. 

The woman sits Dean down in a chair and pulls a small device from a port nested onto the wall. She presses it to each cuff. Right hand, left hand, right ankle, left ankle. It’s surprisingly quick, over and done with in a matter of minutes. The woman turns expectantly to Castiel when she’s done.

“Do you have the other set?”

“Oh, darnit.” He snaps his fingers, “You know, I think I left them in the car. We’ll just go look real quick, we’ll be right back.”

And now, Castiel does grab Dean by the hand, because he’s still staring at the wall and not reacting. He pulls Dean to his feet, smiling all the while. 

“We’ll just be right back.” He says again. 

“But-” Says the woman. 

Castiel and Dean are already rounding the corner, across the lobby, out the doors. Dean blinks at the sunshine, halting as he comes back to himself.

“Come on,” Castiel gives his hand a tug, “We’ve gotta go.”

Dean looks down at his hand, linked with Castiel’s. He frowns, but lets himself be pulled forward toward the car. With the doors shut and locked, Castiel finally lets himself breathe. He backs out of his spot as quickly as possible, and then they’re hurtling down the road. 

Castiel laughs. “Oh my god. I didn’t think that was going to work. Like, really, I didn’t. How did that work?”

He glances over at Dean, who is staring down at his bare wrists. His shoulders are hunched forward. He laughs once, a strange, hollow sound from deep in his chest. Then, his shoulders begin to shake. His sobs fill the car to the brim in moments, sucking out all the air and the light. Castiel pulls quickly over onto the side of the road. His hand hovers over Dean’s arm. 

“Are you okay?”

Dean shakes his head. Nods. Shakes his head again. “I didn’t- I didn’t think-” He breaks off, fingers of one hand going to the lighter strip of skin of the wrist of his other. Castiel would guess that it hasn’t been exposed to sunlight in a very long time. 

He waits, but Dean doesn’t finish his thought. Tears roll down his cheeks, drip from his chin onto the pale flesh. After a while he closes his eyes, he gasps a deep breath, he leans against the car door. 

“Dean?” Castiel presses, gently. How does he respond to this? He’s not sure what change is taking place inside Dean’s head, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t touch Dean, but his hand is there near Dean’s arm. Just in case. In case of what, he’s not sure. Just in case. 

“They’re gone.” Says Dean, voice little more than a whisper. 

“Isn’t that good?”

“Yes.” Says Dean. He’s still crying. 

They sit there for a while. Castiel stays still, he stays quiet. Slowly he sets his hand on Dean’s arm. The warmth, the electricity. Castiel focuses on good energy, happy thoughts. Dean tenses, but after a moment he relaxes. His breaths even out. When he finally sits up and wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand, Castiel moves away. 

“Okay?”

Dean nods, but doesn’t speak. He leans his head back against the headrest. 

 

Dean is very quiet, more quiet than usual. He’s spending a lot of time looking down at the pale bands of flesh on his wrists. He presses his fingers to them. He rubs his thumb back and forth along them. 

“What do you want for lunch?” Castiel asks, to fill the silence. He’s standing at the kitchen sink watching Dean, sitting at the table. He’s itching to pry, he wants to know what Dean is feeling, what he can do to help. But it’s not his business and he doesn’t want to metaphorically rub salt in any wounds. 

Dean doesn’t answer, and after a while Castiel looks over to see Dean still staring down at his wrists. 

“Dean?”

Dean blinks, looks up, blinks again. His expression is open for a moment, vulnerable. “Huh?”

Castiel hesitates. He almost asks,  _ how does this make you feel? _ Instead, he asks, “What did you want for lunch?”

Dean pulls his hands from atop the table to set them out of sight in his lap. His expression closes. “Whatever you’re having.” He says. 

“We could eat outside.” Castiel says, struck with a sudden inspiration. “We could have a picnic!”

Dean’s eyes shift to the left, then the right. “Uh,”

“We can have sandwiches, and I think I still have some of that pumpkin bread that Anna sent over. What do you think?”

“Alright.” Says Dean. 

“What kind of sandwiches do you want?”   
“I’ll eat whatever you do.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, pulling things from the fridge. “I have peanut butter and jelly, ham, and turkey. I’m going to make a ham and a peanut butter and jelly for me. What do you want?” He’s determined to get Dean to pick something, even if it takes all day. 

Dean hesitates. “Can I have a turkey?”

“Yeah, you want more than one? You can have as many as you want.”

“Uh, two?”

“Sure thing.”

“I can help you.” Dean rises quickly from his seat to join Castiel at the counter. He doesn’t seem to have as many qualms about taking charge when he’s doing something helpful, and soon there is a stack of sandwiches between them. 

“We may have gotten carried away with the sandwiches.” Castiel observes. 

“Sorry.”

“We’ll eat them. I, for one, am  _ super  _ hungry. Um. I don’t have a picnic basket, but we can put these in a grocery bag. Will you grab the old blanket on the back of the couch? This is gonna be great.”

They eat on the front lawn, sitting cross-legged on Castiel’s blanket. The sun is high and Castiel lends Dean a pair of sunglasses. 

“Look as us.” Says Castiel. “Just a couple of normal guys, having a picnic.” 

Dean scrunches his nose. He takes a big bite of his sandwich and chews it slowly, looking down at his wrist. When he swallows, he puts his free hand behind his back. He sits up straighter, looks out across the yard. 

His voice is quiet, and Castiel almost misses it when he says, “Just a couple of normal guys.” under his breath. 


	4. Chapter 4

Having a porch swing installed was the best idea Castiel has ever had, he is absolutely sure of it. Rocking lazily back and forth, nothing matters too much at all. The sun is low in the sky, purple shadows reaching their lazy fingers across the yard. There is a creak, and Castiel looks up to find Dean edging out onto the porch. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his jeans, eyes downcast. He clears his throat.

“Hello, Dean.”

“I, ah, i’m sorry about earlier.”

“For what?”

“In the car, I- I got a little-” He waves his hand at the side of his head. 

“That’s okay,” Says Castiel. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Dean purses his lips. He shakes his head. 

“You want to sit?”

A long pause. When Dean finally sits down, he shifts and shifts again. He comes to rest with his toes brushing the ground, heels up. His hands clasped in his lap. He turns his head just a little to look at Castiel, then back out onto the yard. Castiel, the yard. 

“Something on your mind?” Castiel prompts. 

Dean looks down at his hands. He draws in a deep breath. “I don’t know what you’re expecting to get out of this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean-” Dean shakes his head, “I’m not- i’m not pretty on the inside.” He sits back, scrubs his hands over his face. “That’s not what I mean. I’m all- I don’t fit… right.” He laces the fingers of his hands together in an attempt to illustrate his point. 

“I understand.” Castiel crosses one leg over the other. “I don’t expect you to be immediately well adjusted. People are delicate, and you have not been handled nicely, have you?”

Dean scrunches his nose. “Weird way of saying it.”

“You have issues. Baggage. That’s okay.”

“Is it? What are you expecting of me?”

“I’m not expecting anything of you.”

“Everybody expects something.”

“I’m hoping… that you can do what you like. That you can take some time to relax.”

“You spent money on me, though.”

“Ah,” Castiel rubs the back of his head, “That was family money, if i’m being very honest. I do alright for myself, but I also have access to quite a bit of cash that I didn’t strictly earn. But, and don’t take this the wrong way, I don’t have any problem wasting my father’s money for a good cause.”

Dean shakes his head. “I guess if someone else being rich is going to work out for me this time, I’m not about to complain.”

It’s only because Castiel is watching him carefully that he sees wince and sit up a little straighter. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Dean hesitates. He frowns down at his hands. “Nothing much. The brand is hurting me a bit, but it’s not bad.”

A sharp pain lodges itself in Castiel’s chest, followed quickly by a chilling shame. “They branded you? I thought they didn’t get the chance.”

“This one’s from the last place I was at. Didn’t stay there long enough for it to heal.”

"Are you okay?"

“Nothing I haven’t been through before. I’ve been through so many places I've got probably a half dozen of ‘em.”

Castiel is unable to completely keep the disgust out of his voice. “A half dozen?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. Never counted.”

“Why- why would they keep branding you?”

Dean chews absentmindedly on his thumbnail. He doesn’t seem bothered at all talking about this, but Castiel’s head is spinning. “New owners, new brands. The old ones get burnt over, so if I run away I can be returned to the right owner. My own fault, I guess. I’m ‘a runner’.” He huffs a short laugh, hollow, mirthless. “I just couldn’t figure it out when I was younger, if you run they’ll always find you.”

Castiel resists the urge to reach out and put a hand on Dean’s arm. He longs to comfort, but he doesn’t think it will be well received. “How many times did you run?”

A shrug. “How many stars in the sky?” 

“When did you stop.”

Dean does not answer. He stares at the lawn until Castiel wonders if he is going to say anything more at all. 

“I don’t really want to talk about that.”

“Can I see it?”

“What?”

“The brand, can I see?”

Dean looks at him for several long moments. When he moves again, it’s to sit forward, to reach behind him and pull the back of his shirt up just a bit. There are, as Dean estimated, about a half dozen brands marking the tender skin of his lower back. Some of them are old enough to be half healed, others new enough that Castiel can recognize the symbols for Howeford House, the Oak Hill Orchard, and the Banner Dog Kennels. 

“I liked the dog kennels.” Dean says, as if reading Castiel’s mind. “It was nice. I got to play with dogs all day. Well, I had to take care of them, but it’s not hard.” 

Dean’s mouth curves upward softly, and a rush of warmth surges through Castiel’s chest. 

“Did you run away?” Castiel wonders.

“Yeah.”

“Why? If you liked it…” Castiel lets his question trail off. 

“I liked the dogs. The people-” Dean shakes his head. 

“Ah. I’m sorry.”

The newest brand stands out among the others, sharply raised, an angry red. 

Castiel asks, “How old is this one?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Few weeks.”

It shouldn’t look this fresh. Castiel is no expert, but he’s sure it should be more healed than it is. 

“May I?”

“Oh, uh, I guess. Just- careful. Still hurts.”

Castiel’s fingers light carefully on Dean’s skin, near the brand. Not quite touching it, but Dean still gives a little jolt. The flesh around the brand is too irritated, what should be a fully cauterized wound is still unhealed. 

“Dean,” Castiel’s fingers skate over another brand, fully healed. “Have any of the others taken this long to heal.”

“Um. No, I guess not? I don’t know, it’s hard keeping track. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I just- I don’t think this looks right. I think-” He breaks off, thoughts swirling. Dean’s skin is cool, spotted with freckles here and there. He’s leaner than he should be for his height. Hair chopped short by an inexpert hand. He wonders what exactly separates the two of them. What series of events led to Dean’s enslavement, and how close could Castiel have come to the same fate?

“What?” Dean’s voice is sharp with worry. 

Castiel is jolted from his thoughts. “Um. I think it might be infected.”

“Infected?” Dean twists, trying to see his own back, which results in nothing gained. 

“It’s alright.” Castiel assures him. “We’ll see what we can do about it.” 

Dean closes his eyes. Braced on his knees, his fingers tighten. 

“What’s wrong?” Says Castiel.

Dean shakes his head.

“Dean?” Castiel hesitates. “You don’t have to tell me. But I think- I think it’s important that we go into this… partnership, whatever it is, with honesty. And I will do my best to be open and honest with you, if you will be with me. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, but if you have something you want to say, you’re free to say it.”

Dean shakes his head again, grimaces. He turns his head slightly towards Castiel. His voice is barely audible. “I’m more trouble than i’m worth.”

“I don’t-”

“I’m all  _ wrong  _ on the inside.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I don’t know how to be…” he falters, and looks searchingly at Castiel, “a normal person? I don’t know how to do that.”

“You’ve been through a lot. It alters the way you see things, react to things. I’d be a different person too if I went through the things you’ve been through.”

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I don’t either.” Says Castiel. “But I can find out.”

“You think it’ll work?”

“I think it’s worth a shot.”

Dean’s gaze is heavy on Castiel’s face. He seems almost to be waiting for something, he’s frowning but his eyes are calm. 

“I don’t understand why you’re helping me.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You deserve help. I have the time.”

Dean looks at him for a while longer. When he finally looks away, his eyes go back to his hands. 

“You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Maybe.” Says Castiel. “I’ve done more difficult things.”

 

There is a new email waiting in Castiel’s inbox the next time he checks the app on his phone. It comes from one @cbqm with the title heading,  _ about your problem _ . 

He doesn’t open it right away, his thumb hovering over the screen. What if it’s bad news? What if there is no help to be had?

He opens the email. It’s short, but to the point. It’s not exactly illegal to talk about this sort of thing, but sending emails that anyone might get ahold of makes Castiel nervous, and by the brevity of the email he can assume it makes the sender nervous too. But Castiel feels his heart lift as he reads the message, it’s hopeful. It shows a clear plan of action, and Castiel feels calmer than he has in days. 

He types out a quick answer. He hits send. The plan is set. 

 

Castiel wakes all at once, which is abnormal. Usually it takes a while, it happens in increments. Everything is dark, the inky black of earliest hours of morning. He looks confusedly at his bedside clock. It is three in the morning. Why is he awake?

The answer comes a moment later, a strangled scream from the room next door. 

Castiel is on his feet before he can even think about doing it, out of his room and facing the door to Dean’s room. He doesn’t stop to think about privacy, if he should knock. He pushes his way into the room in a panic. His veins are thrumming with adrenaline. 

Dean is still asleep, and this realization stops Castiel in his tracks. How will he be received? Should he leave now while still unnoticed?

Another strangled sound moves Castiel to action. It’s low, helpless. The sound has given up, and a heaviness pools in Castiel’s chest at the sound of it. 

“Dean,” He says, “Dean, wake up.”

Dean stirs, but doesn’t wake. His head thrashes to one side, then the other. The tendons in his neck look ready to snap. The heaviness of the room presses down on Castiel like a physical weight, it’s crushing him slowly.

“Dean!” Castiel closes the distance between himself and the bed, he presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

The effect is instant, Dean’s eyes open, his hands come to grab Castiel’s arm. The air freezes. Icicles begin to form around Castiel’s eyes.

“Cas,” Dean’s eyes are wide. They’re afraid. They won’t move from Castiel’s.

“You were having a nightmare.” Castiel moves his hand slightly where it lays on Dean’s shoulder, back and forth. 

“I was-” Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s arm. He closes his eyes. 

“It’s okay.” Says Castiel. “It was just a dream.” 

He moves slowly to sit in the small space between Dean and the side of the bed. Dean still has a death grip on his arm, but the air in the room is starting to calm. 

“I was-” He breaks off again. “Cas-”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright now.” 

A tear trickles down Dean’s temple to his pillow. The moment is different from every other moment Castiel has experienced. His heart aches. It’s too much. He leans forward to wrap his arms around Dean as best he can. It barely works, but Dean’s arms return the gesture. His hands are trembling against Castiel’s back. The room is dark. 

A whisper, barely audible through the darkness. “I’m never gonna be free of it.”

“You will.” Castiel promises. “You will.”

“It’s always going to be there, in my head.”

“I’m here with you.” It’s the only thing Castiel has left. There is so much that he cannot offer, that he can’t fix. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

Dean is quiet, and after a while his hands stop trembling. He bows his head just a little so that it’s tucked into Castiel’s shoulder. His breathing evens out. 

After some time, Castiel sits up slowly. Dean’s hands are limp, they slide down Castiel’s back to rest at his sides. 

“How are you feeling?”

Dean does not answer. His mouth twists into a frown. His eyes dart away. 

There is still so much contact between them, where Dean’s hands rest on Castiel’s sides, Castiel’s hands on Dean’s arms. Castiel brushes his thumb back and forth over Dean’s skin. So much contact has him on the edge of dizziness. He wants less, he wants more. 

“If you don’t want to go back to sleep, I can make you some tea?”

“Okay.” Dean’s voice is very quiet. It is breathed more than spoken. 

“Alright. I’ll make some then.” He is reluctant to leave. Dean’s skin is magnetic, the darkness of the room and the weakness in his voice have Castiel almost atremble. He should stay and make sure Dean is alright, he should go and make tea for Dean, he should- he should- he should-

Castiel stands. He hardly remembers the walk to the kitchen, but feels the need to brush the darkness off of his clothes once he gets there. With the light switched on, he can breathe again. 

He puts the electric kettle on slowly, goes through his tea methodically. It helps him calm, slows his breathing and his pulse. Everything is alright. Everything is okay. He’s about to go back and ask Dean which tea he wants when he hears a footstep in the hall. 

Dean looks pale. His arms are wrapped around his midsection. His toes curl against the kitchen tile. 

“Hey,” Castiel says brightly. “I was just about to come ask you what kind of tea you wanted. Chamomile? I have some lavender too or I could go get some catnip from the garden.”

“Um.” Says Dean, “Cas, i’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I was going to make some tea for myself anyway. I like the catnip, personally. I wish I had fresh lavender but unfortunately all I have is store-bought. Have you ever had catnip in tea?”

Dean’s nose scrunches. “That’s a- a real thing?”

“Yeah?”

“I always kind of thought it was made up. Just, like, a way to explain weird cat behavior.”

Castiel is unable to keep himself from laughing, but feels guilty when he sees Dean’s frown. “That’s not the first time someone has said that to me.” He explains. “Apparently a lot of people don’t realize that catnip is a real thing. There is something in it that can make cats a little weird, but you can also use it in tea to help calm you down.”

“Oh.” Says Dean. “I guess I could try some.”

“You like lemon?”

Dean frowns. He chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip. “Maybe?”

“I’ll put some lemon balm in, it’ll fix you right up.”

He starts pulling jars from the cabinet, herbs picked from his garden. He can feel Dean still standing behind him. 

“Do you want to sit down? You don’t have to stand if you’re tired.”

Dean says nothing. When Castiel glances back over his shoulder he’s still shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. 

“Do you want to, um, talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Your bad dream.”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Sorry.” Dean falters. “It’s not-”  
  
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I just- I don’t think I can.”

“That’s okay.” Castiel says again. “You want some Oreos? I think I have a pack up here somewhere.”

Dean does not answer, but Castiel continues looking for the cookies anyway and finds them just as the tea begins to boil. When Castiel brings both the cookies and the tea to the kitchen table, Dean is still standing in the doorway. He’s staring at the wall, hands clasped in front of him. 

“Dean,” Castiel says his name gently. And again. “Dean.”

Dean blinks. When he looks up, it takes a moment for him to come back from wherever he was. He moves to the table. He sits down across from Castiel. 

Castiel pushes the package of Oreos towards Dean. “Cookies?”

Dean frowns at him. He looks down into his tea, runs a finger around the lip of the mug. “You don’t have to stay up with me.”

“I was already up.”

“Because of me.”

Castiel shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere to be in the morning.”

Dean looks up at him again. “Yeah. What do you… do?”

“You mean for work?”

A nod.

“A few different things. I paint, mostly. I’m lucky enough that my sister owns a gallery and she’s a good saleswoman. Other than that I… I sell produce from my garden and the farmer’s market in town and I also sell honey.”

“Honey?”

“Yep. I, uh, I have bees.”

Dean’s frown deepens. “Bees.”

“I’ll show you tomorrow. I only have a couple of hives so it’s not much honey, but I really enjoy it. Have I shown you the garden yet?”

“No.”

“It’s almost more than I can handle, to be perfectly honest. The weeds are out of control, but it’s worth it. Have you ever gardened?”

“Not voluntarily.”

“Ah. Well. I suppose it’s different.”

Dean leans his face close to his tea and breathes deep. He tests the heat with a sip. “I don’t know, it wasn’t bad. Calm. I didn’t hate it.”

“So what  _ do  _ you like to do?”

It takes Dean a while to answer. He chews on his bottom lip. His ears twitch. “I like… reading. I like music. I like running.”

“Running? Really?”

“I like going fast.”

“Fair enough. What do you like to read?”

A shrug. Dean ducks his head. “I- I don’t know. Nothing important. I don’t get the chance too often. I liked…”

“What?”  
  
“Uh, Harry Potter?” The tips of his ears are turning pink. 

“Hey, they’re classics for a reason.”

Dean huffs. One corner of his mouth pulls upward.

“Have you seen the movies?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“Um. Yeah?”

“Alright,” Castiel gets to his feet. He grabs his tea with one hand and the cookies with the other. “Come on. We’re gonna watch the first one.”

Dean looks up, startled. “What, now?”

“Good a time as any. Unless you don’t want to.”

“No I- I want to.”

“Alright.” Castiel grins at him. “Lets go.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have just a bunch of pointless fluff! I promise to put more plot in the next chapter, but this is gonna be mostly just pointless fluff if you haven't figured that out yet.

There is a snoring in Castiel’s ear. A light snoring, more of a very low rumble. This is not what wakes Castiel up. It is not the snoring in his ear, but the tickle of hair against his neck. His neck has a crick in it, as does his back. He’s too warm on one side, one arm is asleep, and he’s pressed oddly against something. 

It takes him a while to figure it out; he doesn’t wake up easy. It’s when he goes to press a hand against his eyes and finds one arm trapped between himself and the couch that he remembers watching Harry Potter deep into the night with Dean; he remembers starting to nod off. 

It’s not entirely daylight out, but misty blue of pre-dawn. Castiel stretches his legs out in front of him, jostling Dean in the meantime. 

“Hmm.” Dean grumbles. 

The television screen has defaulted to the Netflix logo, it casts a dim red light around the room. Castiel is unsure if he should wake Dean. He wants to go back to his own bed; this position is uncomfortable and one of his arms is asleep. But Dean needs rest, and it had taken him so long to relax. The memory comes back to Castiel; Dean beginning to nod off towards the end of the movie, the soft weight of him against Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel shifts again, trying to get some feeling back into his arm. Dean stirs.

“Huh?” He turns his head, his nose presses into Castiel’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, soft. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Hmm.” Dean sits up a little, falls back, sits up again. “What… time is it?”

“I don’t know. We fell asleep, I guess.”

Dean blinks. He rubs at his eyes with the heel of one hand. A yawn splits his face. “Can I go back to sleep?”

“Sure. Do you want to get into bed first? I think you’ll be more comfortable.”

Dean nods. His head is loose, and he’s unstable on his feet when Castiel helps him up. 

When they get to the door of Dean’s room, Dean turns his head towards Castiel. “Cas,” He yawns again. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Says Castiel. 

Dean turns a little further, he wraps his arms around Castiel, he gives him a squeeze. It only lasts for a moment, but it feels as though someone has reached into Castiel’s chest and squeezed his heart. Dean pulls away, mumbling something, and stumbles sleepily back into his room. Castiel stands where he is. He feels a little dizzy, a little stunned. He puts a hand to the wall to steady himself for a moment while he thinks. What is this? Why is he so affected by a hug, of all things? It’s not as if no one has ever hugged him. Its just… been a while. A long while. Still, it shouldn’t have him feeling this way. 

“You okay?” Comes a voice from inside Dean’s room. Dean, not yet in bed, is standing nearer to the door than Castiel realized. 

“Yes. Sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Me too.” Says Dean. He walks the few feet to his bed and falls into it. 

Castiel turns to his own door, his own room, his own bed. Why does it seem more empty than before?

 

Castiel’s garden might be called overgrown, but never out of control. It is in control, a fact that Castiel knows well. His cucumber plants have climbed so far up the side of the house that he can’t reach the vegetables at the top. His tomatoes, okra, and corn are all as tall as he is. He loves it to a degree that he recognizes as possibly odd, but it fills him with such a profound sense of peace that he doesn’t care. Sometimes he goes and lies down between the rows and disappears from the world. The air is fresh and green and sweet, the sun is warm. Castiel cannot imagine a happier place. 

Dean squints at it. “It’s…”

“Big? Amazing?”

“Wild.”

“Yeah, well, I do like to let it find its own place, you know? I start the plants out and then watch them go.” He can’t keep the grin off his face, and Dean’s answering smile warms something in his belly. 

“It’s certainly a lot.”

“Do you want to go in?”

“... In?”

A thrill runs from Castiel’s toes to his fingertips. To go into the garden, what a sacred thing. No one else has set foot in Castiel’s garden in, well, ever. It is  _ his _ , but he hopes it might be a comfort to Dean too. 

“Come on.” He says.

He reaches out to Dean, palm up. Dean looks at his hand. Castiel isn’t entirely sure why he’s offering his hand, only that he wants to be tethered to Dean in some way when going into the garden. It’s instinct. It’s a long few seconds before Dean takes it. 

Together, they step into the green. 

It feels like stepping into a dream, into another world. In the garden, time stands still. Castiel turns to look at Dean once they’re in, and finds him looking up at the tops of the plants. Have they grown taller in the moments since the two men have entered? They definitely seem taller. 

Dean draws in a deep breath. “It’s like being in a jungle.”

Castiel grins. “Except you can eat anything you want.” He reaches out to pull a ripe tomato from a plant, somewhere near head height. It smells warm and sweet. He hands it to Dean. 

Dean looks at the object. He turns his hand to see it better. His thumb runs along its smooth surface. “It smells different.”

“They do. They smell different straight from the garden. Taste different too. All vegetables do, I think. There’s something about getting them straight from the source. Sometimes I just come out here and grab whatever I can find and eat it.”

Dean’s mouth pulls upward at one corner. “I believe that.”

Castiel squints. “Why do I feel like you’re making fun of me?”

Dean examines the tomato closer. “I have no idea.”

“Hmm.”

Both of them are quiet, Castiel runs his hands along the leaves of the plants. The cucumber leaves are as big as his hand. He breathes in. He breathes out.

Dean brings the tomato to his nose. “You’re quieter.” He says.

“Hmm?” Castiel has been preoccupied with the leaves. The softness of them. The fresh smell. 

“You’re usually talking.”

“Ah. Well. That’s a scathing review of my personality isn’t it? Not that you’re  _ wrong _ .”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing. I… I like it. It’s nice. I never have to guess what you’re thinking.”

“Oh?” A soft happiness bubbles up between Castiel’s ribs. He can’t remember the last time anyone thought any part of his personality was  _ nice _ . 

Dean looks at him. He smiles. He looks away. 

“Well. I, um, thank you.” Says Castiel. He looks away too. The dimples in Dean’s cheeks are sending little sparks up Castiel’s spine. He has imagined holding hands with someone in this garden more times than he would like to admit, and realizes that he could. Dean is right there, and likely wouldn’t object to some light hand-holding. But would that be appropriate? No. No it would not.

“Anyway, I thought you might like some fresh tomatoes and cucumbers with lunch. Maybe some bell peppers? I have sweet yellow ones, they’re very good. What do you think, sandwiches? Or salad? I suppose we could make some kind of soup but that would take some time.”

When he looks again, Dean is looking back at him. He’s still smiling. Castiel’s hand spasms, and he almost crushes the pepper plant he’d been reaching for. 

 

The wooden planks of the front porch radiate warmth. A breeze dashes in and takes it away, tugging at the hair curling at the nape of Castiel’s neck. A plate of sandwiches sits on the step to his right, and on the other side of that is Dean. 

The crunch of the cucumber slices between Dean’s teeth sounds like comfort. The smell of incoming rain, the sun on his face.

“So,” Castiel takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, swallows. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you but, um, I'm looking into the legal side of things. Assuming that’s what you want.”

Dean blinks. “Legal side of what?”

“Your, uh, your freedom.”

Dean says, “Oh.”

“It doesn’t seem to be quite as difficult as I thought it would be, so far. I don’t know, I've really only just started looking into it, but I have a friend who knows quite a bit about it. I might ask her over to talk to us about it. Is that alright with you?”

It takes Dean a beat to respond. “Yeah. Um. Yes. I would- I would like that.” He looks down at his sandwich. He looks back up at the yard. “Could I go for a walk?”

“A walk?” Castiel’s first thought is,  _ of course _ , followed swiftly by,  _ it could be dangerous _ . He swallows both answers. “That’s up to you. It’s a nice day for it. I would… watch out for cars though.”

Dean nods. “You’re worried someone will take me.”

“Not as such. A man taking a walk won’t cause undue concern. I guess i’m just a little paranoid.”

“Me too.” Says Dean. “But… I’d like to take a walk. I’ve never just gone walking for no reason before, not running away or anything.”

“You want some sunscreen?”

“No, i’m okay.” Dean stuffs the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, grabs another from the plate, and stands. He takes a moment to finish chewing. “I’ll be back.” He says. He gives a little wave with his uneaten sandwich. He starts off down the driveway.

Castiel watches him go. He doesn’t seem as burdened today as yesterday, but then, what can you tell by looking at someone’s back? He’s wearing one of Castiel’s old shirts, a pair of Castiel’s pants, Castiel’s shoes. He has so little of his own.

Castiel adds,  _ take Dean clothes shopping,  _ to his mental list of things to do. It’s getting a little long and hard to remember, faded at the edges. He should write it down on actual paper. He adds  _ that  _ to the list. 

 

Castiel can barely believe how easy it has been  adapting to living with Dean, especially after he’s been on his own for so long. He’d thought it would be harder, that there would be more awkward silences, more bumping into each other. He’d thought that his routine would be thrown out of whack, his personal space intruded upon. In fact, he finds that he doesn’t really mind having someone else in his space. He doesn’t mind another toothbrush alongside his, someone sitting across from him at meals. In fact, the house feels different with someone else there. It feels more alive than before. The shadows in the corners no longer feel like ghosts. 

There is the problem, though, of work. Castiel needs to be doing it, but he hates to leave Dean alone. It’s not that he can’t take care of himself, but that Castiel feels a sense of responsibility for Dean’s entertainment. 

“I’m fine.” Dean says, when the subject is brought up. “I can do some cleaning.”

“You don’t have to, though. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be working all the time.”

“I don’t. But I like to be useful.”

“Well, you can do what you want.” Castiel concedes. “But I do mean  _ what you want _ . You can watch TV or… read? You can do things outside. Whatever you feel like.”

Dean looks at him. He doesn’t say anything for a while. He says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

And so, he leaves Dean to it. His art room is on the back porch; a screened in area, open to the air, with all the natural light you could ask for. Half finished paintings lean against every surface. Looking at them makes Castiel’s head ache. He hasn’t been able to finish anything in a while. In… a long while. He’s been getting worried texts from his sister lately, and calls that he doesn’t answer. She wants more of his paintings for her galleries, but there are none to be had. He looks around at the mess. He closes his eyes. 

Painting fills him with an almost indescribable joy. At least, it used to. Recently it just feels… tedious. It feels like work, and it never has before. It was his first passion, and now it’s empty. He’s been painting landscapes, maybe that’s his problem. When he first started it was all abstracts, ideas, and a portrait of his sister as an angel that sold for more money than he’d ever seen. Now? Fields. Rolling hills. Cottages. They’re pretty, but they don’t light him up, and he can’t seem to paint anything that does.

He stretches first, and picks a painting at random to set on his easel. It’s a painting of his home, in a slightly more cartoony style than he usually uses. He sits down in front of it and feels… nothing. He can’t remember why he started it, where he was going. It’s nothing. It’s just a picture. 

“Fuck.” Says Castiel.

He puts his head in his hands. It has developed a dull throb in his temples. Unbidden, Dean’s face floats behind his eyes. Soft eyes, soft mouth. Freckles. Depth.  _ That’s  _ what he’s looking for, that depth. Thick eyebrows, sharp jaw.  _ That  _ makes him feel something. A small, tender sort of hope that starts at the center of his chest and flows outward. He should finish his landscapes. He should finish… 

His box of paint tubes lies on the floor next to his chair. Blank canvases in a stack near the window. He chews his bottom lip. He should finish what he’s already working on. Dean’s face comes to him again. His fingers twitch. 

 

The slam of the front door breaks Castiel out of the zone. He’s so focused that the loud sound makes him jump and he almost knocks the entire painting off of the easel. Thirty seconds later Dean comes walking in wearing no small amount of dirt on his hands and face, several leaves in his hair, and the widest grin Castiel has seen on his face. He visibly tries to tamper it when he comes into Castiel’s art room, but doesn’t quite manage. He stands at the threshold, hands clasped in front of him. 

“Hi,” Says Castiel.

Dean’s grin grows again. “Hey. Um, I was thinking about making some lemonade, if that’s cool with you.”

“Of course. You look like you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

“I’ve just been weeding. But, uh, I got a lot of it. And I got a lot of sun, that was really nice. I forgot how much I like-” He makes a gesture, what could be anything from digging to grabbing, “- getting my hands in the dirt. It’s like, really calming.”

“I agree.” Says Castiel. “I’ve always found it to be almost… meditative.” 

Dean shifts from one foot to the other. “Can I- can I ask what you’re painting?”

“Ah,” Castiel sets his paintbrush down on the front of the easel. He’s not entirely sure he should tell Dean. But, then, why? Because he’s a little embarrassed? Because he’s afraid it’ll come off as creepy? “It’s, um, it’s a portrait.”

“Can I see?”

“Well. Yes, I guess so. It’s just- it’s not finished and I- it’s a little…” He trails off as Dean steps up beside him. 

“Wow.” Says Dean.

“I know, I know. It’s weird. I shouldn’t have- shouldn’t have painted  _ you _ -”

“No that’s- that’s okay. It looks… I look…” He trails off. 

When Castiel looks up at Dean, he’s staring at the painting with misty eyes. It’s nothing fancy, Dean sitting on the front porch. Castiel has painted a sandwich in Dean’s hand, and he’s smiling big. It was their interaction at lunch. 

“I look kinda happy.” Says Dean. 

“You do, sometimes.” 

Dean looks down at him. He looks back up at the painting. His ears twitch. He says, “I’m gonna make that lemonade.” And then he’s gone. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think! 
> 
> catch me on tumblr at [deanlightful](https://deanlightful.tumblr.com/).
> 
> hugs,  
> grace


End file.
